


Ninth Progression

by Neffectual



Series: one step forward, two steps back [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, Progress Wrestling
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Gen, Hardcore Match, Swearing, spoilers for chapters 2-9 of progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9942128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: Progress would be that chance, they’d give him the opportunity to be who he really was, to prove himself as a wrestler, not just another guy with a hardcore gimmick and nothing else to recommend him. A chance to be seen as a real talent in the ring. He was going to fucking do this, and there wasn’t anybody who’d be able to stop him.Jimmy Havoc wants to use Progress as a stepping stone. But everyone else seems to want to stop him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Chapter 2, up to and including Chapter 9 of Progress. 
> 
> I always say that when I start a new fandom, I start with introspection. So I did.

The campaign had been a success. The thing about Progress was… they didn’t do hardcore. They were very clear on that when they got started, and he’d been excited. This was a chance to really show what he could do, to have a chance to leave all the blood and glass behind. Sure, he’d been good at it, but he was getting older now, nearing thirty, and maybe it was time to find a safer way to continue the craft that he loved so much. Progress would be that chance, they’d give him the opportunity to be who he really was, to prove himself as a wrestler, not just another guy with a hardcore gimmick and nothing else to recommend him. A chance to be seen as a real talent in the ring. He was going to fucking do this, and there wasn’t anybody who’d be able to stop him.

 

* * *

 

His first match hadn’t quite been what he was expecting. Sure, he’d brought a spoon as a gag, because, well, what did everyone expect of him? But he’d almost expected Danny to break the rules, to send them into something a little more blood-thirsty and less within the rules of Progress. He was pleased the other man didn’t, and while, sure, the show they put on had some elements of humour, the two of them knowing each other too well for it to be anything other than a friendly test of skill, it still showed off what he could do. It still showed he was more than a one-trick pony. They'd made the audience laugh while they'd thrown each other around, kept it entertaining, and that was what was important.

“Least I could do,” Danny said, afterwards. “You want out of the hardcore shit, we all want to see you reach thirty with both eyes.” He shrugged. “I’ll help if I can.”

“Appreciate it,” Jimmy said, clasping his friend’s hand. “I’ll send you a fucking postcard when I make it.”

“Cheeky cunt,” Danny said, inclining his head towards him. “You’d fucking better.”

 

* * *

 

He didn't blame Jon for bringing out the weapons, same as Jon didn't blame him for fucking escalating until they were both bleeding. They were old enemies and older friends and they'd fight again someday. They'd hugged and had a beer after, and when he'd told Jon he really wanted to do it this time, really fucking wrestle instead of dragging himself, bleeding, across the canvas, Jon seemed surprised.

"But you're so good at the death match shit."

"I'm a good fucking wrestler too," Jimmy had said, mildly. Jon knew that.

"Not like the kids they've got coming up," Jon had said, and laughed, and ordered another fan to buy them a beer. Jimmy drank, and seethed, and remembered. He was a good fucking wrestler - no, a great fucking wrestler. He'd fucking make sure they all saw that. This was his chance.

 

* * *

 

The match with Zack was everything it was supposed to be. They weren’t enemies, they weren’t rivals, everything they did was about showing exactly how fucking good they both were. Everyone knew Zack was good, and Jimmy was going to fucking show them, even with that ‘blood isn’t wrestling’ prick Nigel McGuinness as guest ref. He’d show them all what he could do, Zack would put him through all his paces, but he’d fucking show them. He wasn’t just a hardcore guy, he had so much fucking more to show, to prove – even a loss would count for something here, if he could just get some offence in and hold his own. He could fucking do it.

When Nigel took the mic, Jimmy crumpled and battered - he didn't know it was possible to feel this sore without being full of shards of glass - he was waiting for the usual shit, the usual dismissal. The usual bullshit Nige liked to spout about blood not being necessary for wrestling, and how hardcore matches didn't fit his pure fucking ideal of the sport - Jimmy would be happy to batter the cunt to prove him wrong, if he didn't also respect him. Besides, he wanted to quit the death matches, but people kept booking him in them, and the alternative was what? Not making his rent? Fuck that. When Nigel complimented him, and told him that he didn't need the hardcore shit, he was... pleasantly surprised. But Nigel was right, he didn't need the blood, he was an incredible fucking wrestler and he'd put Zack through his paces. He crawled to sag in the corner next to his old friend, and the look they shared was electric. Good things were coming. They were going to be so fucking big. And Nigel fucking McGuinness had said it himself - he was one of the best. He was going to make a name for himself - as a proper wrestler.

 

* * *

 

A hardcore match. They'd booked him in another fucking hardcore match. After Nigel had said, after - he headed straight for the bar once the first match got underway. No point being sober if they just expected him to bleed. Sure, he kept an eye so that Danny wouldn’t get both Riots on him at once, but he downed a few at the bar, eager so-called fans keeping them coming, before sauntering back to the ring for his own match. It would be a cold fucking day in hell when he couldn’t manage a match like this half-cut, and he felt like a cat with a mouse, holding court. Sure, he could have stopped the match any time he wanted, but these people came for a fucking show, and never let it be said that Jimmy Havoc didn’t give the people a fucking show. He might be many things, but boring to watch was never going to be one of them.  

Davis went down so fucking easy, first death valley driver through the mdf, like the fucker had never taken a bump before, and like he told the crowd, he could have ended it right then and there. But they wanted blood, so he gave it to them, calling for another beer first. Fuck it, he could take this prick, didn’t matter how many beers he’d had, he could take him. The beer was slow to arrive, and he’d nearly beaten the cunt again before he decided to stop playing nice and start playing like everyone fucking expected. They’d booked a Havoc hardcore match? Fuck it, they’d get one.

The first light tube was a fucking mistake, eyes barely closing in time against the shards of powdered glass, and then the beer came and it didn’t fucking matter. Some more of that, another light tube, and he was stumbling, feet not wanting to get underneath him properly. Bracing himself over the light tubes was possible for a moment or two, before they shattered beneath him, and he tried to remember all the rules about not fucking bleeding when you’d been drinking. The feel of more light tubes being broken over the back of his head almost didn’t register over the thrum of blood and the rush of the alcohol, but the pin did, just in time. Being dropped through the table felt and sounded like dying, the roar of the crowd the only other sound. If they liked him so much, why the fuck were they cheering him having the shit kicked out of him? Why did they keep fucking watching if he was meant to be their fucking favourite? Why did they shriek, the bay of fucking hounds, when the cunt came back with a fucking lemon?

In the end, it was his own fucking pink chair, his own fucking machismo, two chair shots to the head not enough, you fucking prick? No, he had to take the time to fucking swear at Davis, instead of moving out of the way, the third shot making everything hazy and dark, and by the time he realised there was a pin, it was over and done, and Glen was there, with gloves on, checking how his pupils were fucking dilating. He’d have shoved them out of the way, but moving felt like too much effort, though he staggered upright after a moment. He was known for this shit, he was a hardcore guy, and yet he couldn’t even win something that was supposed to be his fucking wheelhouse. He let the ringing in his ears drown out his own thoughts as he took another drink. They cheered that, too. He didn’t know what that meant.

 

* * *

 

A fucked knee didn’t put anyone in a good mood, and trying to get into the ring while holding a beer, without the crowd laughing didn’t exactly help. Sure, they cheered for him, and they laughed about wanting to win him the fucking raffle, but he could see it in their faces, if they weren’t going to watch him bleed, they weren’t that interested in him. Sure, a few offered to buy him a beer, but the pain meds weren’t going to react well to that, and he might be a fucking idiot, but he wasn’t a suicidal one. He hugged Jim before heading out of the ring, but it felt like a fucking afterthought, he could see the text Jim sent last night in his mind’s eye. So that was what he was worth. Not a moment to ask how he was, just asking when he’d be back, not caring about him, just when he could be back making money for the fucking prick. Jimmy ground his teeth, and pulled them into a grimace that could almost be considered a smile, if no one looked closely.

When the Riots broke into the ring, he stayed by the bar for a moment. He wasn’t going to get involved, and have someone mess his knee up even more. He wasn’t going to put himself in harm’s way, because no one else would fucking do it for him. But when they cornered Jim, well…. He brought his char to the ring, and they scampered away like little mice, but as Jim raised his mic to gather a cheer for him, he paused. That wasn’t thanks. That wasn’t a proper fucking booking, in a real fucking match. It was just lip service, just fucking talk, like so much was. When the chair met Jim’s back, it felt right, just, clean. This had been his chance, this had been his fucking chance to get something right, to step out of the blood and the broken glass and be a fucking wrestler, to show exactly what he could do. And instead, what had they done? Just given him the same old fucking gimmick, the same old shit time after time. No one was interested in giving Jimmy Havoc a fresh start. He brought the chair down, over and over again. These cunts wanted to cheer some fucking blood? He'd give them some fucking blood.


End file.
